“Maybe because we each had a different relationship with Derek.”
“And you had one that lasted a lot longer,” she said. “I know. I get it. Everyone here thinks they knew Derek better than I did.” She drew in a breath, then let it out. “Maybe I didn’t see him for who he was.” Derek had told her as much in the letter he’d left for her. “But it’s not even about Derek anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you were talking about meeting me in the bar all those years ago, I felt like you were talking about a different girl. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Some days I barely recognize my face in the mirror. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Then you should find out who you are. For instance, maybe you’re a woman who likes to surf, and you just haven’t figured that out yet.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Nice segue.”
“Just think about it. New experiences can be fun.”
“Or they can be horrible.”
“It just depends on if you see the glass half full or half empty,” he said.
“It hasn’t been half full in a long time. I used to be a lot more optimistic. I guess that’s part of growing up.”
“I don’t know about that. My father is one of the most optimistic people I know, and he’s in his sixties.”
“Speaking of which, has he married Patty yet?”
“Who knows? It’s been very quiet.”
“A bad sign,” she said with a smile.
“Tell me about it.”
Lucas returned to the table with a picture he’d drawn. “I made this for you,” he told Jason, climbing onto his lap. “It’s a picture of you and me and Mommy flying the kite. And there’s Digger, too.”
The puppy lifted his head and gave a bark.
Jason laughed. “It’s great. I love it. Thank you. You’re really talented.”
“Like my daddy,” Lucas said. “Grandma Nancy says Daddy was the best artist in the world.”
“He was very good,” Jason said. “Can I keep this?”
“Are you going to put it on your refrigerator?”
Before Jason could reply, the front door opened, followed by Nancy’s cheerful voice. Brianna’s heart filled with dismay.
“Brianna, I know you said you didn’t need any food tonight, but I thought you might have changed your—” Nancy stopped abruptly as she entered the kitchen, her shocked eyes taking in the cozy scene. “What—what’s going on here?”
“Jason brought us pizza,” Lucas replied, while Brianna was searching for an answer. “And I made him a picture. He’s going to put it on his refrigerator.”
“No. No.” Nancy put up her hand, shaking her head in denial. “This isn’t possible. This can’t be happening.” She whirled around and ran from the room.
Brianna quickly followed her into the living room. “Nancy, wait.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her with the shock of betrayal etched in every line of her face. “How could you, Brianna? How could you invite him over here?”
“I didn’t invite him. He’s house-sitting next door. He pulled up with a pizza, and Lucas invited him in.” She could see that her words weren’t even getting through. “I’m sorry, Nancy. But there’s really nothing to be upset about.”
“He hurt Derek. He hurt you. He destroyed our lives. How could you forget that?”
“I haven’t forgotten, but—”
“There’s no but.” Nancy cut her off with an emphatic shake of her head. “You can’t be friends with him. Not now. Not ever.” She walked out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
Oh, God. Hurting Nancy was the last thing she’d wanted to do. She took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. Lucas was alone, playing on the floor with Digger.
“Jason said he had to go home,” he told her.
Though Brianna was relieved that she didn’t have to send him away, the damage had already been done. She just hoped she could find a way to fix it.
TEN
Charlotte parked her car in front of Joe’s house just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. She’d deliberately avoided any situation that would put them in a room alone together, but she had promised to drop off a recipe for chili, and by the time she’d finished with her patients for the day, Joe had already left the station. Since the cook-off was tomorrow, it was now or never.
Joe lived in a one-story house on the ocean side of the street and had a great view from his backyard. The last time she’d been in his house had been purely by chance. She’d been riding her bike and hadn’t realized she’d ended up on his street until he pulled into the driveway. He’d invited her in for a drink, and she’d foolishly accepted. She hadn’t had more than a sip when his wife, Rachel, had arrived, looking at them as if she’d just caught them in the middle of an affair.
That had been months ago. Joe hadn’t invited her back since, and she’d skipped this particular hill on her bike rides.
Despite her misgivings, she walked up to the house and rang the bell. Rufus, Joe’s golden retriever, started barking. There was no sign of Joe, but his car was in the driveway. Hearing activity in the backyard, she moved down the side of the house, stepped through the back gate, and stopped abruptly at the sight of Joe, bare-chested, swinging an axe at a log next to a huge pile of wood. His tan skin glistened with sweat; his muscles rippled with each powerful swing. She’d thought he was attractive in his uniform, even hotter in his jeans. But with no shirt and tight, faded jeans, wow . . . Her breath stalled in her chest, and she was torn between a reckless desire to stay and a smarter desire to flee.
Rufus made the choice for her. He ran over and jumped up, his paws landing on her shoulders as he licked her face with happy kisses.
Distracted by the dog, Joe turned around, and the expression on his face wasn’t at all welcoming. The raw bleakness in his eyes made a shiver run down her spine. She’d never seen him without his polite veneer.
“I—I just came to drop off the chili recipe,” she said, feeling oddly nervous.
Joe dropped the axe and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he said finally.
She was almost sorry to see the control come back, but it was probably a good thing. She was a little too fascinated with the glimpse she’d had into a darker part of his soul.
Rufus barked and nuzzled her hand, demanding more attention.
“Rufus, sit,” Joe ordered.
“It’s fine. He’s fine.” She felt a little foolish with her inability to find a bigger vocabulary.
“Why don’t you come in?” He strode toward the deck without waiting for her answer.
“All right,” she muttered to herself. She climbed the stairs and walked through the sliding glass doors into the living room. Rufus ran ahead to the kitchen, while she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. As she waited for Joe to return from wherever he’d gone, she glanced around.
The brown leather couch and armchair looked supremely comfortable for watching the flat-screen television over the fireplace. There was only one painting on the wall, a large seascape that matched the view outside the room. And that was about it. The simple furnishings suited Joe, but she couldn’t help wondering if they suited Rachel. From what little Charlotte knew about his wife, she would have guessed her tastes ran more to sophisticated, modern design.
Joe came out of the bedroom, a button-down shirt now covering his chest. She was a little disappointed but also relieved. “Do you want some water?” he asked as he headed toward the kitchen.
“Uh, sure,” she replied, following him to the doorway.
He grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator and tossed one to her. Then he unscrewed the top of his and took a long drink. He must have stopped in the bathroom to wash his face, because the beads of sweat had disappeared, but his cheeks still glowed from his recent exertion. “So let’s see the recipe.”
She set her water on the counter and took out the recipe she’d cop
ied from her mother’s collection. “This one won the cook-off four years ago. I took out a couple of ingredients and added some others from another recipe to make it unique. If it works, you’ll have a good shot at the trophy.”
“There’s a trophy?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There’s always a trophy,” she said with a smile, “especially when my mother is involved in the event. But don’t get too excited—it stays in the church hall. You just get your name on it.”
“How disappointing. What does it look like?”
“A large bowl with a gold spoon in it.”
“Something worth shooting for,” he said lightly, but there was no amusement in his eyes.
She frowned. “Are you all right?”
“I’m great.”
“Really? Because you looked like you wanted to beat the crap out of that woodpile.”
He hesitated for a moment and then walked past her. She followed him into the dining room. He picked up a large envelope, pulled out a thick wad of legal-sized papers, and handed them to her. “I got these today.”
It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at. Stunned, she lifted her gaze to his. “Oh my God, Joe. Divorce papers?” They’d been having problems, but Joe had seemed so determined to work things out. She hadn’t expected this.
“Apparently, Rachel decided to make this separation permanent,” he said tightly.
“She didn’t tell you they were coming? I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” she added quickly.
“She claims she tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen. That was one of her favorite complaints about me—I never listen.” He grabbed the papers out of her hand, stuffing them back into the envelope, as if he regretted having shown them to her. “So, what’s involved with this recipe?”
“Joe, you don’t have to make the chili. This is clearly not a good night for you.”
“I’ve got nothing else to do, and frankly, I’d prefer to be busy.” He took the recipe from her hand and perused it. “I don’t think I have any of this stuff in the house.”
“I could run down to the store for you.”
“I’ve got a car, Charlotte, and I’m not dying.”
“Aren’t you just a little?” Her soft words drew his pained gaze. “You were together a long time, weren’t you?”
“Since we were fifteen.” His jaw tightened. “But that was then; this is now. I’d better get to the market so I can get started on this.”
“You really don’t have to do it. It’s not that important.”
“I thought your mother was going to suffer dire consequences if you didn’t find her one more chili maker.”
“She’ll live. I’m more concerned about you.”
“Don’t be. It’s not like this came out of nowhere. We’ve been having problems for a long time.”
“Maybe you should talk to Rachel, see if there’s a chance to work things out.”
“We’ve been trying to do that for months—actually, longer than that. I thought the move here would be good for us, but it turns out it was only good for me. Rachel loves Los Angeles. That’s where her life is.”
“Have you considered going back?”
“I’ve considered a lot of things.” He took a breath. “Let’s get back to the chili,” he said briskly. “If I’m going to make it, I want it hot.”
“You like the spice, huh?”
“Always. My father is Latino. If you’re not sweating while you’re eating, it’s not spicy enough.” He tilted his head, giving her a considering look. “What about you, Charlotte? Do you like it hot?”
She drew in a quick breath at the dangerously reckless look in his eyes. She told herself not to encourage him, but she heard herself say, “Absolutely, as long as it’s also good.”
“Oh, it will be good.”
“We should go to the store,” she added, knowing that she needed to defuse the situation before they both did something they weren’t ready to do.
“You don’t have anything better to do—like hanging out with Reverend Schilling?”
“I don’t want to talk about Andrew, and I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about Rachel, so why don’t we just concentrate on making the best chili that Angel’s Bay will ever taste?”
“Just chili, huh?”
“Just chili.”
“Okay, fine.” He reached for his car keys on the side table, and they headed out to his car. “So, you’re a good cook, are you?” he asked, as he opened the door for her.
“Heavens no, but I’m a really good shopper. You’ll have to do the rest.”
“This could quite possibly turn into a disaster.”
She had no idea if he was talking about the chili or about them being together. “Well, whatever it is, it will be hot.”
It had been a long time since he’d had had a woman cooking in his kitchen, Joe thought as he watched Charlotte chop an onion. Rachel had left town a month earlier, but even before that, she’d rarely cooked. They’d usually grabbed takeout or eaten at one of the restaurants in town.
When he’d first married Rachel, she’d loved trying new recipes out on him. That changed when she went back to school to get a real-estate license and then work full-time. He’d been okay with it, because she was happy, and he couldn’t begrudge her a career that she enjoyed. But he’d always thought wistfully about his parents’ marriage, all the fun they’d had cooking together. They’d bicker and kiss and cook with the same passion they exhibited in every aspect of their lives. Mealtimes had always been crowded, too, with six kids and whatever friends and family were around. There was always room for one more at the Silveira table.
He’d thought by now he would have his own brood of kids, but he was nearing forty and the vision of children was getting farther away. In the beginning, he’d wanted to put it off. His career was demanding. Then Rachel decided that she wanted to wait because of her career. Since then, it had never been the right time to start a family. Now he had divorce papers.
Sometimes Rachel liked the grand, dramatic gesture. Did she want him to come running to L.A., tell her that he was willing to give up his life for her if she would only rip up the papers? Or did she want him to sign the papers and end it? He didn’t like the idea of failing at his marriage. His parents had set a great example and one he’d intended to follow. But he’d screwed up, or maybe Rachel had—or maybe it was both their faults.
He would let the papers sit for a while, give himself some time to think.
Charlotte swore as a chunk of onion flew off the cutting board, and he couldn’t help smiling. Since they’d returned from the supermarket, Charlotte had attacked her assignment of chopping up tomatoes and onions with great enthusiasm. He enjoyed watching her go at it, but he was a little concerned that she’d slice off one of her fingers in the process.
“Slow down,” he said. “Those are supposed to go into the chili, not on the floor.”
“They’re a little slippery.”
“I hope you’re better with a knife when you’re doing surgery.”
She made a face at him, her eyes blurring with tears. “Well, I’m usually not crying when I’m doing that.”
“How do you not know how to cook, when your mother is supplying every ailing or depressed person in town with homemade dinners?”
“That’s her, not me. She stopped trying to teach me how to cook a long time ago. It’s one of the many ways I disappointed her.” She pushed a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. “You seem to know your way around the kitchen. Was your mom a good cook?”
“She was superb. She could make incredible hearty stews out of nothing, a trick passed down by her frugal Irish grandparents. And my father loved making tamales and enchiladas. Sunday dinners were always a big buffet. My aunts and uncles and cousins would all come over after church, and we’d stuff ourselves for the next four hours.”
“Sounds a lot like my Sunday afternoons, only it wasn’t so much blood relatives as our church fami
ly. But the house was always full. I miss that now. Never thought I’d say that. At one time, I dreaded the Sunday afternoon command performance. I had to be on my best behavior, which even at its best wasn’t all that good.” She gathered the onions into a pile and tossed them into the pot. “There. All done.”
“I think you were supposed to save some for the garnish.”
“Oh, well, you can do those. I’ve shed enough tears for you.” She laughed. “That sounds like the beginning of a country-western song.”
“So you noticed my CD collection,” he said, enjoying the teasing light in her eyes.
“On the way to the bathroom.”
“It’s not exactly on the way. You were snooping.”
“Guilty.” She ran her hands under the water, then dabbed her eyes with a paper towel. “I spied a little. You’re not an easy person to get to know.”
He’d made it a point not to let her get too close. He was still married, even if there were divorce papers nearby.
“What do you want to know about me?” He picked up a knife and started chopping the next onion.
“Something that no one else in Angel’s Bay knows,” she replied, leaning against the counter. “Which should be easy, since I’m betting very few people know you at all.”
“I’m the chief of police. It helps to keep distance between myself and the community.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I appreciate the need for objectivity, but you strike me as someone who always holds his cards close to his chest, even when he’s not on duty.”
“And you strike me as someone who couldn’t bluff her way through a card game to save her life.”
Her eyes sparked. “I’m not that bad. I’ve kept a few secrets over the years.”
“Why don’t you tell me one of yours?”
“I asked you first.”
He finished slicing the onion and then tossed the pieces into a small bowl.
In Shelter Cove Page 14